


Limerence

by jamiesfreckles



Series: Beautiful Words [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Boys In Love, Crushes, First Love, M/M, Pining, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 19:34:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14754959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamiesfreckles/pseuds/jamiesfreckles
Summary: Limerence: the state of being infatuated with another person.His heart is a bruised peach, softened over time and over-ripe, pushed and prodded until the soft fuzz wrinkles and warps. Those pushes and prods come from hands that lay on the grass beside him, hands that turn the pages of a book with the utmost care, with reverence and peace. He knows these hands like he knows his own - better, in fact.





	Limerence

**Author's Note:**

> I am trying out some new things, and exploring the beautiful words in the world through characters we love! <3 I hope you enjoy!

There is a lake, a lake with a depth that will never be known and a surface as smooth as silk. There is a sky, blue like the bells in the woods, cushioned with pink and butter yellow. There is a boy, and another boy, so quiet and still they could almost be part of the tree trunk they lean against. 

Friends, and deep down - more. Two friends with more in their hearts, two friends with strange names, lost in the coming of the evening. Albus and Scorpius. Scorpius and Albus. And that’s all that needs to be known, because they are two friends who are more than their last names. 

Albus feels so much, he thinks it could break him. He feels the euphoria of another day won. He feels the sweetness of unfinished tea on his tongue. He feels an urge, an ache, to move and roll over, to be even closer to the boy beside him. This ache follows him around, dogs his steps. It sits on the shelves of the library, watching as two boys throw planes at each other, and make paper birds take flight on the breath of their laughter. It hunkers down beneath the rims of plates and cups at the dinner table, waiting for the moment when fingers brush over the boiled potatoes. It grows comfortable in the seams of emerald bed-covers, holding its breath as ankles do not quite curl together. 

It is an ache, but it doesn’t hurt. Albus moves, the syrup-slow movement of a boy with a lifetime ahead of him, and his eyes find Scorpius, and the ache grows deeper. 

His heart is a bruised peach, softened over time and over-ripe, pushed and prodded until the soft fuzz wrinkles and warps. Those pushes and prods come from hands that lay on the grass beside him, hands that turn the pages of a book with the utmost care, with reverence and peace. He knows these hands like he knows his own - better, in fact. He knows the odd, almost crooked shape of the left thumb and the way the nails are ragged on three fingers and rounded on all the others. He knows the roughness of the palm, right at the base, the heel, where the wrist meets the artist. He knows how they hold quills and brushes and forks and spoons. These hands know him, too. 

Not in all the ways he would like, but enough. Always enough. 

“You’re thinking again.” 

Albus has never loved a voice like he loves this one. He has never loved the soft, unassuming way the vowels sing before he heard this song. He has never loved a melody the way he loves the sound of Scorpius’s voice. He thinks he could fall in love with him all over again every time he speaks. 

“And you’re reading again. We all have our habits.”

Scorpius laughs. It’s a sound that he could bottle and pocket. He doesn’t need to. It sits in the curves of his ears for the grey days, for the days when Scorpius isn’t around. 

He thinks there is something to being fifteen and in love. The melodrama of each moment is laughable and yet not enough. He thinks there is something to being fifteen and so in love that it feels like an ache. He wishes he could say it, say the words, because sometimes it’s not until something is said that it’s truly known. 

How to say it, though. He takes another look at the way those eyes smile, and thinks, _I’ve missed you longer than I’ve known you._ He watches as the corner of a page folds down and thinks, _to outlive you would send me to a swift death._

Melodrama, at its highest peak, and yet nonetheless true. 

Scorpius rolls onto his back and smiles at the butter yellow. His mouth is a half-moon, the cut of a coin. Albus doesn’t think anything could be better than sitting by a lake, sitting by a boy, _this_ boy, under a half-dead sky. His hand skates across blades of grass, sharp in their observing ways, until he brushes moss and leaves from silver hair, and that smile is turned on him, and suddenly he can’t breathe. 

There is something to being fifteen and being in love, and that something is here, in front of him, in the way he can’t breathe at the curve of a mouth, _this_ mouth. 

He puts a fist to his chest and feels the peach skin crinkle, and thinks, _you bruise me._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much! Please let me know what you thought! <3


End file.
